Christmas is not nice for everybody
by xXenayx
Summary: The year is coming to an end, John is stressed out, and Sherlock has a downfall in his battle against his depression. Will this be his last Christmas on Earth? Sequel to This Just Ain't Living.
1. Chapter one

Summary:

The year is coming to an end, John is stressed out, and Sherlock has a downfall in his battle against his depression. Will this be his last Christmas on Earth?

Sequel to This Just Ain't Living. Some of the things mentioned here might be spoilers for the still unfinished prequel.

Trigger warning:

Talk about self harm but no action, mentions of self harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Intrusive Thoughts, Major Depression, Chronic Illness, chronic major depression, sherlock is depressed, sherlock is suicidal, ANGST, anxiety, antidepressants

Notes: Another vent fic. Will post a new chapter every day.

I rediscovered Skillet, so all of the future chapters will be titled by the song that inspired it.

**Chapter one**

"Yes, yes, I know! I'm coming! Alright?! You win. I'll be there some time tomorrow evening. But only if you stop drinking right now. ... Good." With a disgruntled sigh, John ended the call. His sister was drunk, horribly drunk, and had begged him via text for an hour until she called him, to come to her for Christmas, because her newest girlfriend had 'suddenly ghosted on me, John, and I didn't do anything to deserve this! It's your job as my brother to help me through this!', she had cried.

John really didn't want to leave, because he had completely broken off his contact with his sister for over two years, and suddenly he gets texted and called from her apparent new number, three days before Christmas.

He wasn't too worried about leaving Sherlock for a couple of days. His flatmate hadn't gone under into a severe episode in over two months now, actually solved 4 cases, and was at a semi healthy weight. And he was clean from self harm for over half a year. This was probably the safest time he could think of in leaving him with Mrs Hudson for a few days. Plus Mycroft would most likely keep an eye on him as well, as always. He probably already listened in on his call with his sister and knew that he'd leave tomorrow.

In fact, Sherlock must have woken up from his yelling. John quietly went to his friend's door and peaked into the room. Completely dark and no movement. Probably just still sleeping off his meds. Ever since his doctor decided to up the dosage to 15mg, Sherlock was out like a light until 11 in the morning, but John could wake him up earlier pretty easy for appointments. But for the most part he just lets him wake up on his own, because he needed more sleep than 'normal' people. Living with chronic illness will do that to you.

John leaned the door closed again and went to his own room to pack a few things, mentally making a list of things he'd need when he would be with his sister for a few days. He considered packing his medical bag as well, just in case.

\--

Sherlock had woken up when John was yelling at someone, but couldn't make out the words. He'd been up until about 4am, thinking about taking all of his meds at once and be done with all this. He'd stayed away from where his meds were because of that desire, so he hadn't taken any at all.

It's been so long since he last hurt himself, yet the urge to harm himself was taunting him for the past week. He hadn't, of course, he didn't want to. He had come so far.

Feeling at his scars in the darkness, he reminded himself of why he wanted to stop in the first place: because I already suffer enough as it is, I don't have to make it harder for myself. Don't have to punish myself for things that are out if my control.

He sighed and curled in on himself. Then he noticed that his door moved. John.

He couldn't muster up the strength to move or say anything, and then John was gone again. He could hear him walk up the stairs to his room, and wondered briefly what this was all about, when he suddenly didn't even care anymore.

\--

A few hours later he finally emerged from his room, having just laid there on his bed wide awake, used the bathroom and joined John for lunch. He was rubbing at his eyes again once he sat down at the table. His hair was a mess but he didn't care.

John didn't seem to notice. He was elsewhere with his thoughts. Suddenly he cleared his throat to get Sherlock's attention. "I'm gonna stay with my sister for a few days." He was confident that Sherlock wouldn't mind it so much. After all, they never really celebrated the holiday much. 'It's only an excuse for people to engage with their family for one day in the entire year, and donate money to starving children, because they apparently only need help around this time of year,' was what Sherlock told him once. He didn't see the point of celebrating, presents, anything. And to be honest, that had made it a whole lot easier than worrying about what either could like as a gift, about family and friends... which seemed to be the case right now.

John was definitely Not going to gift his sister a bottle of wine.

Sherlock didn't answer, just froze. He knew that John hadn't so much as texted his sister in a long time, so this came as a surprise. He looked at John for a second, then down at the table. He hadn't even noticed that there was a plate before him, containing mashed potatoes and a small steak. The same was on his flatmate's plate. John had been forcing him to eat meat almost every single day, because according to him, he needed the iron and proteins to stay healthy. Well, as healthy as he could get.

Sherlock took the silverware and started cutting at the meat.

"I'm going to leave tomorrow, hopefully I'll be back before New Years Eve." John continued as he was eating at his potatoes. When no answer came for the next minute, he finally looked at his suspiciously quiet friend. "You'll be alright for a few days, right?" He asked him, doubt starting to creep up in his stomach.

Sherlock stilled his hands. "Of course." He said, his voice was grave, like it always is when he's in an episode. John frowns at this. "Are you sure?" "Yes." His friend answered too quick for his liking. "I'm sure I will survive a few days without you." He then added sarcastically and took a piece of meat into his mouth.

John rolled his eyes. "Well in that case. Don't bother Mrs Hudson too much when you're bored." He joked. Two could play this game.

"I won't make that promise." Sherlock halfheartedly joked back. Anything to get him off his back. John laughed. Good.

God he was tired.

They both went back to eating their lunch.

Though Sherlock's mind was playing tricks on him again, focusing on how the knife cut through the flesh of the meat. Imagining it being his arm, how the blood would-- _Okay_. _That_. _Is so messed up. I'm **trying **to eat here._

'Trying' being the key word.

_This isn't going to end well._

_'_

_'_

_'_

**Authors Note:**This is my logic: can't write on all of my other projects, something bothers me, I start writing a new project, post it before it's even done, and then regret it later.

Anyways. Merry Christmas and a happy new year my friends and fellow warriors!


	2. Falling inside the black

Notes:

Just letting you know, there will be tons of angst.

I'm actually a bit sorry for the intense cliffhanger of the next chapter.

**Chapter two**

Sherlock stood in the empty flat, not sure what to do next. John had just left with his bags. Told him not to get into too much mischief while he was gone, and just... left.

**You could just take a handful of your pills and sleep until he comes back.**

While that thought sounded very nice, Sherlock knew better than to listen to the demon inside his head. He knew that he wouldn't wake up when John was back. And that actually sounded comforting, in a very twisted way.

With a groan he pressed his palms against his face. _Just shut up already_, he bit at the demon. He hadn't taken his meds once again, simply because the mere thought of pills would trigger his demons to come out of their hiding places and plant the seed into his mind once more.

_I'm better than that. John wouldn't want me dead._

**But John isn't here. He doesn't care. He just left, to deal with his burden of a sister. He's rather with her than with you, that should tell you enough.**

_SHUT! UP!_

\--

He was hungry. Actually hungry. And there weren't any leftovers because there was nothing from yesterday to refrigerate and save for the next day.

He opened the fridge and found a whole salami that caught his eye. He took it out and moved over to get the-- sausage slicer.

Multiple images of Sherlock cutting his arms open with the sharp blade running at full speed made him freeze.

He decided that maybe the meat knife would be better.

Yeah, should have known better than that by now.

Once he managed to look away from the mesmerizing knife, he put the salami back into the fridge.

Then his eyes caught sight of a basket filled with nuts and oranges on the kitchen counter. It was a gift from old fashioned Mrs Hudson, still mostly untouched save for a few nuts missing - John liked to eat nuts as little snacks when watching TV.

He was about to look for a nutcracker when his mind filled him with visions of putting his throat into it and- _Okay come on, that can't possibly smash my entire throat._

It was still enough to make him just grab oranges and began the painfully slow process of peeling the skin off.

_Just a few more days..._

\--

The elastic rubber of the O-ring expander was stretched beyond what it should, over and over and over again. The sturdy training tool that John had given him were abused until his arms burned so much that he couldn't hold onto the foam handles anymore, and it flung across the living room. He'd have to look for it later.

Breathing hard, Sherlock collapsed on the sofa, arms feeling like jelly. But the urges were still there. And the hopelessness was eating at his soul.

He was all alone. Mrs Hudson had a note on her door, saying that her sister had invited her over, which was a six hour drive away from London, so she'd be with her until January 2nd.

Why was everyone leaving him all of a sudden? His brother was away at a conference - 'war doesn't care about the date' - and he wasn't keen on texting John.

He actually didn't know where his phone was right now. And he didn't care.

Would it even matter if he texted John? Or anyone for that matter? Would he just annoy them on this time of year, because no one wants to deal with him anyways?

The pills seemed like a better and better option as time went by.

\--

The next day, John tried to call Sherlock on his phone when he finally had a moment of peace, but only got to the answering machine. "Hey, Sherlock. Just wanted to check how you were doing. Text me back when you hear this." Was all he had said. Sherlock was probably just doing some experiments, or solving a case, or simply had his phone on mute, as so often. He didn't worry. He had a drunk sister to deal with.


	3. Never surrender

Notes: Dear lord why do I torture him so much.

I think I'm a sadist.

**Chapter three**

He needed John. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. Anyone, really. Even Anderson would be welcome right now.

Actually scratch the last one, over his dead body would he let that idiot see him like this.

Dead body. Great. He couldn't stop thinking about this, could he?

He doesn't even know what time it is. Maybe it was midnight. Maybe later. Maybe earlier. He didn't care. All he knew was that it was dark outside and he still couldn't take his medication, because he would be so tempted to take them all.

He felt like he was starving, and not hungry at all, at the same time. He had stayed awake the entire night. Because his mind couldn't rest.

Not because he kept visualizing the many many ways he could end his life right then and there, but after 2am it started to take on a new face. Particularly how John could be dead. From car accidents to his sister murdering him in a drunk rage, to some murderer happening to cross paths with John. Even a random shoot attack or bombing.

He still couldn't find his phone. The battery must be dead by now, he hadn't fully charged it the day before yesterday. Or was it the day before? What day was it..

\--

John had by now completely forgotten all about what Sherlock could be up to, his sister demanding his full attention the whole time.

\--

He had fallen asleep, somehow. And slept the entire day away. It was as though he was living in constant darkness. He didn't want to turn on any of the room lights, and the sky was too cloudy for the moon to shine light into the dark and empty flat.

Empty flat. John isn't here. Mrs Hudson isn't here. Nobody is here. Nobody cares.

_Help_..

**Slit your throat.**

_I need_ _John_.

**Psycho killer cab driver abducting John and slowly killing him in an abandoned house.**

_I need somebody._

**It's all your fault. You could have prevented this.**

_Before the darkness consumes me._

_\--_

He had managed to take a shower and wash his hair. It's a small victory, and sadly enough it's a victory that he can't accomplish every week. A 32 year old.

_I should be a father. A hard working, married father of successful children, who want to be just like me. Instead, I am incapable of taking care of myself most of the time. _

And now he was a crying mess on the floor, because while families will celebrate this holiday tomorrow, he is all alone with his demons.

_John please come home. Please be alive and come back home. I need you._

\--

He had to keep his mind busy.

_Experiments_. That's gotta work. He still had projects he had to test, and with the amount of free time -don't go there, don't go there..- he could do all of those without John's disapproval. Don't think about John...

He put his plan into action. Actually managed to focus on the task at hand.

But halfway through the experiment, the demons reared their evil heads again. The bunsen burner would be good enough to burn the entire house down if he 'accidentally' dropped it on the floor, slowly burning himself to death in a well deserved, painful way. Or the test tube. The thin glass, smashed on the floor, it's sharp edges cutting thro-

\--

It's 3am on Christmas Eve when he finally caves in, standing in the kitchen, arms extended, ready to stab the sharpest knife into his chest.

_Ironic, isn't it, when I die on the day that God was born. When people are happily eating together, opening presents, enjoying themselves. _

_Goodbye. I'm sorry_


	4. Battle Cry

**Chapter four **

Mycroft Holmes had gotten disturbing messages from his workers. They had been keeping an eye on his brother 24/7 for the past few days, and it was a few hours ago that he had had enough, stepped out in the middle of a heated discussion, into his private jet, and was currently on his way to Baker Street.

The Mercedes comes to a halt in front of the door. It's five after 3am and before he has a chance to get out of the car, he gets a message saying that Sherlock is about to stab himself.

Never in his life was Mycroft faster through the door, up the stairs and through the flat than in that very moment.

He gave a precise slap to throw the knife away from his brother's hands, and quickly wrapped his arms around his little brother, both stumbling to the floor.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?!" Sherlock demands, his voice so raspy. He hadn't said a single word out loud the past three days.

"I was about to ask you that. But I'm pretty sure we both know the answer to that, brother mine." Mycroft said, and held a firm hold on his brother as he struggled to get free.

"Let go of me!" Sherlock yelled at his brother.

"No."

"Well you have to let me go at some point."

"I'll release you once you've calmed down and won't attempt to harm yourself."

"Hmpf."

\--

Even after he was released, Sherlock was not pleased. Now that he was still alive, he was hungry and tired and just absolutely done with everything. He just wanted to sleep. Until next year. Maybe longer.

"Will you tell me _now_ what happened?" Mycroft asked him.

"You know what happened."

"I meant: what happened to make you do this?"

"In case you haven't noticed, I haven't actually done anything, yet."

"But you were going to."

"Yes."

"But why? You were doing so-.." Mycroft stopped when he saw the angry scowl on his brothers face.

"If you were going to say 'good' I will murder you in your sleep."

"Coming from you, I'd better take that threat serious."

"Don't even start." Sherlock sighed. "When I'm down on the ground, everyone just wants me to get better. They pity me, wonder where they went wrong, search for a reason. But once I'm "better", everyone seems to suddenly forget that the bad stuff happens. It's literally the word 'chronic', it just means that there will be ups and downs but never an actual recovery. Just... learning to deal with it on the bad days and making the best out of the good ones. Just because my... disability is invisible, doesn't it mean it's never actually there. Because it is there. Every single day. Day and night. It never ends. It just has its ups and downs." Both brothers were stunned by how much Sherlock just opened up. To his brother nonetheless.

Must have been the insomnia talking.

Mycroft actually looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'm told you haven't taken your meds. So I'm guessing it's not just the illness's fault."

Sherlock looked away. "Technically it is."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow.

_I don't have to tell him. I've already said enough as it is._

_Then again, he did just stop me from..._

He closed his eyes. "I've been... suicidal.. for a while now.. so I couldn't bear to go near any pills."

Mycroft's face softened at that.

_Is he pitying me?!_

He crossed his arms over his chest. His stomach growled angrily at him, making his brother smile. _He had the nerve to f*cking smile!_

"I'll get you something to eat, and then your meds into you. And then you'll sleep. You look dead on your feet as it is."

Sherlock huffed at him again.

\--

They both ate simple pasta with tomato sauce, and while Sherlock's mind thought about how it looked like if he had gone through with his plan, they both enjoyed this moment of calm.

Once they were done, Sherlock showed his brother where his meds were, and Mycroft handed him one pill and put the rest back, locking the cabinet with the key and stashed it in his pant pocket.

"Take it and get some sleep. I'll stay with you until John gets back."

Sherlock took the pill from his hand and muttered a "thank you".


	5. Rebirthing

**Chapter five **

Greg Lestrade attempted to call Sherlock for the third time now, but it's always the same.

_The person you've called is currently not available._ He was starting to get worried.

He would have liked to say that it was just a call to wish him a merry Christmas, but there was actually a murderer on the loose who manages to hide bombs in gift boxes. They were already informed of almost 20 deaths, and it wasn't even 1 o' clock yet. Murderers don't care about holidays, they use it for their twisted ways. Greg sighed. He had texted Sherlock all the details they had so far an hour ago, but he hadn't gotten an answer. So he started calling him, which led him nowhere. Usually, the detective had his phone on silent if he was doing something that needed his full attention, so Greg would normally get through to the voice mail. This time though, his phone appeared to be turned off.

He tried calling John next. The first try goes unanswered but at least he had a signal on his phone. Then he tried again, and just before the lady could start with her useless talk again, he gets through. "John?"

He was mildly shocked when a female voice answered him. "Not quite, I'm his sister. What can I do for you?" _He's not with Sherlock?_ He suddenly got chills all over his body, because that means that Sherlock is alone and doing bad enough to not answer his phone. He started to think that maybe he hadn't turned it off, but let the battery run out. But he was tied to his work right now and couldn't just leave to check on him.

"Could you get him on the phone, please? It's urgent."

"Sure. HEY JOHNNY-BOY!" Greg backed away from his phone when she started yelling. "SOME POLICE INSPECTOR SAID HE NEEDS TO TALK TO YOU!" Is she drunk?

He waited for a moment. Maybe Sherlock was actually with John at his sister's and he was worrying for nothing. Very unlikely but still a possibility. He at least hoped so.

"Hello? Greg?" John's voice asked.

"Finally. John, is Sherlock with you?"

"...no? Why? Did he do something? Steal evidence again?"

"No. I haven't heard from him. In fact I haven't even managed to get him to answer his phone. I have a case I need solved ASAP, but I think his phone is turned off."

There was silence on the other end.

"I'll try calling him." John told him before ending the call suddenly.

\--

_The person you've called is currently not available._

_The person you've called is currently not available._

_The person you've called is currently not available._

"Fuck."

"Gosh John, I think I'm rubbing off on you, little bro."

"Shut up Harry, this is not the time for jokes!"

Harry answered by drinking from her bottle, again. John groaned. This was definitely Not how he pictured Christmas to go.

His hands were shaking when he dialed Mycroft's number.

"Holmes." Mycroft answered his phone in the kitchen, having left Sherlock sleeping in his bedroom the second his phone vibrated and showed an incoming call from John Watson.

"Mycroft! Is Sherlock-"

"My brother is doing perfectly fine. You have nothing to worry about."

"Then why doesn't he answer his phone?!"

"He's currently asleep. My people have an eye on him at all times. He ate, washed, and took his meds."

"Okay.. that's.. good to hear. Thanks."

"My pleasure. Do enjoy your time with your sister."

"Thanks but I won't. Bye."

Mycroft chuckled to himself when John ended the call. He felt that John was punished enough for leaving his little brother when he needed him the most. But Sherlock and his pride.. Mycroft had decided to play along.

\--

Mycroft had managed to find Sherlock's phone and charged it. How, when and why it ended up in the thankfully unused dishwasher would remain a mystery.

Once the phone came back to life, it started spam-alerting the many missed calls from Greg Lestrade and John Watson. Plus the texts Sherlock had received from the DI before he started calling him when he had gotten no response.

A Christmas bomber. That might be the best timing for crimes. His brother would have something to focus on, for the time being.

Mycroft told him about it once his brother was awake again. And for a moment he was afraid his brother could go down into another breakdown, judging by his expression.

But then his brother suddenly relaxed again. Seeing his older brother's questioning face, he explained "John doesn't do presents."

Mycroft muttered a "sentiment" to himself with a half-laugh.

Sherlock smirked at him. "I seem to remember a certain brother being sentimental not so long ago as well."

Mycroft didn't answer. They both remembered a certain conversation all too well still. _"Your loss would break my heart."_

\--

Sherlock managed to get Lestrade every information they needed. All that was left was to catch him and bring him to justice.

\--

It's the last day of the year when John finally comes back in the late afternoon. Having stayed much longer than he first anticipated, he was just happy to see Sherlock again.

To his surprise, Sherlock was standing at the kitchen table, dressed and combed, serving two filled plates. Had he cooked dinner for the two of them? And how did he know when he'd be back?

"Sherlock? I'm home!" He called to get his attention.

Sherlock looked a bit apprehensive. But then came towards him and forced a smile. "John! You're back! Lets put your stuff upstairs." He moved quickly and took one of John's bags.

"I can do that later-"

"Nonsense, come on." He said and pushed John to go up first. He then turned around to see Mycroft stealthily leaving through the front door.

"What was that?" John asked from above when the front door clicked closed.

"Nothing." Sherlock replied and brought the other bag upstairs.

\--

Eating their dinner, John told Sherlock all about his time with his sister, how they were arguing almost the entire time, how much of a pain in the ass she was.

Sherlock stopped listening at some point and just thought about how he suddenly felt like his relationship with his brother was so much better now than it was back then when they were kids. Or, well, until a few months ago.

"And you have been here all alone, without Mrs Hudson, or me, or anyone? Did you start a war somewhere I should know about?" John joked.

"Told you I'd be fine." Sherlock said proudly. Because in the end he really was. Well, sort of.

Suddenly the O-Ring expander he had lost in the flat came jumping by... from the ceiling fan it looks like.

While Sherlock held a stoic face, he was internally looking like a deer caught in headlights.

John's eyes trailed it for a moment before turning his attention back to Sherlock.

"Experiment." Sherlock said.

John just shook his head at him and grinned.

\--

They were watching the old classics on TV, waiting until midnight AKA the new year to start. "You know, I never thought I would miss watching TV. Harry smashed hers by throwing a bottle at the screen because it was running some show about young couples marrying, and apparently that didn't sit well with her being drunk after another breakup."

Sherlock wasn't fully listening to him, he was tired and should have taken his meds over two hours ago, but he just wanted to be close to John right now. He was just glad that John was alive. And that he himself was still alive as well.

"We interrupt for some important news: the serial killer , also known as the 'explosive presents murderer' was successfully caught and is now held in custody for the rest of his life. He took the lives of..." John turned to Sherlock with a pointed look. "Any other heroic moments I should know about? Greg said something about needing you for a case. Didn't think some guy would actually use Christmas to blow people up."

Sherlock winced at the last part. He suddenly realized that this guy could have killed John after all, not thinking much of a random present appearing out of nowhere and opening it. His demons could have been correct. John would have gone right into a death trap, never seeing it coming. Mrs Hudson! She is still away, maybe the guy secretly had accomplices that he didn't take into account and-

"Sherlock! Hey! Hey.. calm down.. was it something I said..?"

He was hyperventilating.

John wrapped him into a hug, shushing him, trying to calm him down.

"It's okay. Everything is okay. I'm right here. Nothing bad is gonna happen. Shhh..."

John was rocking him slightly. And it was soothing. In these moments, age doesn't matter. Nothing matters except helping. Feeling safe.

_God, John, if you d- .. if you hadn't come b- .._

A reality so painful he couldn't even think straight, the pain was too much.

He cried.

Not full-out bawling but just silently cried for a bit.

The TV was already continuing with the shows they air every year, but neither of them was interested. All it did now was make noise and give them some light.

When Sherlock finally calmed down some, John asked him "alright?" They still didn't move from their position.

Sherlock nodded against his shirt. "What happened? Was it something I said?" John repeated his earlier questions.

"Mrs H," was all Sherlock answered. He was exhausted.

"You want to call Mrs Hudson?"

Sherlock nodded against his chest again.

John tried to get up but Sherlock didn't move. "Sherlock, I have to get up if you want to call her," John said amused.

Sherlock finally budged and let John get up to get his phone.

"Alright, let's hope she is still up." He told Sherlock. It was only about twelve minutes until midnight.

To his surprise, and Sherlock's immense relief, she actually answered. "Hello? Sherlock, dear, are you there?"

He sniffed. "Yes. I'm here. We're here," he answered.

"We are here Mrs Hudson. Just wanted to wish you a happy new year before the fireworks go off." John supplied as an excuse.

"Oh you boys! Happy new year you two. Don't burn the house down before I get back!"

John chuckled. "We won't, promise."

"Okay, I'll see you in a few days. Bye."

"Bye."

John just watched Sherlock melt from relaxing after that stressful moment, whatever that was.

He set the phone down on the coffee table and sat back down next to Sherlock.

"We are all alright, okay? Nothing bad is going to happen." John reassured him, and Sherlock just gave a quick nod.

The first fireworks hit the sky, making them both look up. They got up to the window and watched for a bit as one after the other exploded and filled the sky with sparks of colors.

Soon the church bells started ringing, making the fireworks come faster and multiplied.

"Happy new year, Sherlock."

"Happy new year, John."

_And let this year be better than the last one._

_\- Fin -_


End file.
